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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28653633">hertz</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidborder/pseuds/voidborder'>voidborder</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pocket Monsters: Sword &amp; Shield | Pokemon Sword &amp; Shield Versions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Depression Recovery, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, everyone's learning how to be emotionally mature and honest with themselves, radio station AU, very marnie-centric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:08:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28653633</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidborder/pseuds/voidborder</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeling burnt out, Piers looks for a new job. The radio station in town provides him with one. It's funny how simple things can help you reconnect with feelings you thought you'd lost.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kibana | Raihan/Nezu | Piers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>hertz</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My first time writing fic in a few years. I'm a little rusty, but really like this pairing and will hopefully do it justice.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<em> This is DJ Kibana, comin’ at ya with the last dose of beats for the night. This is your alternative radio, 106.5, the pulse. </em>” </p><p>Piers looks up from the tabloid he’s thumbing through to level a sharp glare at the radio. </p><p>It’s almost three-thirty in the morning, and five hours into his night shift at the combination KwikMart-Subway. Piers has heard all songs of the popular “alternative” hits at this point in the night and nods his head to the beat while he begrudgingly contemplates their success. </p><p>He could be called a music elitist. Jealousy and pride easily breeds an underlying ego.</p><p>But Piers listens to the radio anyway, because the Kwikmart gets eerily silent at night, save for the hum of the drink machines and the occasional car from outside. Piers leans against the register, returning to his flip through the paper with sluggish fingers. He’d spent the last few hours ringing up the occasional quiet customer with the mutual speed and understanding of two strangers that wanted to avoid social interaction as much as possible -- working nights at a gas station on an obscure highway exit did Piers quite a few favors. Every single night is the same. </p><p>One such customer shoulders in the door now. The bell chimes on their way in. They grab a drink, Piers rings it up, they pay in cash, and they’re headed out the door again. </p><p>“Have a nice night,” Piers calls mechanically. The cash drawer gets stuck halfway in like it always does, and he hits the side and jiggles the plastic till it slides in with a click. </p><p>He rubs his eyes again. Four am in a few minutes, then he’d trade shifts with the morning staff and head home to get some sleep just as Marnie got up for school. </p><p>The store’s quiet again, aside from the mutter of the radio. Piers deflates as he sees his distorted reflection in one of the convex mirrors. They’re meant for security. Piers doesn’t feel very secure looking at it. </p><p>He focuses very hard on a headline in the tabloid in his hands while his mind wanders elsewhere. It’s 4:10 now, the drive home is short enough, and factoring in a quick shower he’ll probably be in bed by 5. Marnie knocks on his door gently and whispers <em>goodnight </em>when she wakes up, early enough to get her makeup done, grab a coffee, and catch the bus before her 7AM bell rings. </p><p>“<em> ...aaaand...that’s it for tonight, folks. Those of you who are still up-n-at-em, get home safe. Take care of yourselves out there. </em>”</p>
<hr/><p>It’s 5AM and Piers feels his muscles relax one at a time when he’s finally in bed, flesh pulled too tight over bones too long. Leaves him sore, a wiry bruise kept in human form. </p><p>The apartment is dark. He can hear Marnie moving around, can pinpoint her position based on the squeal and groan of each floorboard. Eventually, she comes to a stop outside of his door; hesitates, just for a moment, and then pats the door a few times where she’s too kind to knock. Piers hears it anyway. </p><p>“Hey, Marns,” he says, voice hoarse. </p><p>“Hey,” she says back, and nudges the door open with her foot. “Got room?” </p><p>Piers’ body shivers in a long stretch, and he pushes himself toward the wall to make room for her. She has’t put on her spikes yet. No choker, no sharp edges. </p><p>“Missed you,” she whispers in the dark. “Love you.” </p><p>Everything about raising Marnie is one big concession. Piers gives to her because she is simultaneously everything he is and everything he is not; same blood and bones, same pulled-tight flesh over wiry muscle, same knife-sharp edges. A quiet girl learned to cover herself in a cacophony of bright and loud and bold that predators read as a warning sign. Vulnerabilities and variables are hidden far deeper than her makeup and clothing and icy glare, where only Piers can see them. They have the sort of bond that siblings have, but stronger; cement and city streets casting the connection of two people who have only ever had each other. </p><p>She lays down in his bed and curls her head against his chest like she has since she was a child. And Piers yields to fit her design like he always does, a lump of clay to be pushed and molded into whatever she asks of him. His arms wrap around her protectively. One holds her close to him, the other holds the back of her head, and just like that she is 5 years old again and Piers is the only person that Marnie lets in. </p><p>Everything he’s not. Smart and talented, yes, but driven in ways Piers can’t begin to understand or imagine. Driven in the ways that make artists into celebrated professionals instead of 25-year-old burnouts. He’s seen her stuff, posted online. Tens of thousands of other people see it too, and she’s still in high school. She will make it in ways that he never could. </p><p>So, Piers provides. He concedes to reality and bites his tongue against jealousy and resentment and the bitter pit of sickness that calls him washed up, choosing to focus on Marnie instead. She’s fiercely independent, just like her older brother. But Piers will give her everything she can possibly accept anyway. </p><p>It’s 5:10, and Marnie’s pocket chimes as Piers feels his eyelids getting heavy. It’s a shake and shifting of the masks, battle armor sliding back into place as quickly as it was removed. Marnie is no longer a vulnerable child. She is a 17-year-old almost woman, a 5’2” warrior that’s made herself into something to be feared and in awe of. </p><p>Piers loves her so much his heart hurts.</p><p>“Sleep well, bro,” Marnie murmurs. Piers can’t see her in the dark, but she finds his hand and gives it one last affectionate squeeze before she’s pulling away and out the door. </p><p>The bed is warm and Piers is unformed clay again. Marnie is no longer there to give context to his design. </p><p>He falls asleep.</p>
<hr/><p>Piers clicks through job applications because Marnie is telling him to. </p><p>She comes home from school at 2PM and wakes him up because he forgot to reset his alarm last night. Piers thanks her and waves her off, tells her that there’s nothing worth his precious free time in this backwater college suburbia anyway, so he much rather sleep through it.  </p><p>“I’m not sure these night shifts are workin’ for ya, bro,” she says carefully over reheated curry. It’s a late lunch. “Much as I love to catch ya in the mornings, I don’t think it’s good for your health.” </p><p>Piers’ slouch gets slightly more pronounced. Ever the competent one, she is. He feels bitter bile crawl up the back of his throat, squeezing at his heart with a firm, clawed grip. </p><p>There’s a long silence, and Marnie’s words hang heavy in the air. </p><p>Piers wants to be angry in the ways that people see. Not at Marnie -- she’s just pointing out the obvious, and she loves him, he knows this -- but at himself, mad in the way that lets him smash a plate or punch holes in the wall as tangible proof that his feelings were real or relevant or worth lashing out over. </p><p>Maybe, if he had that much self-esteem, Piers would take the bowl of cooling curry in front of him and slam it against the table. Kick a table leg and see if it snapped. Bend the dirty old laptop backward until the screen cracked and flashed with squares of white and green and black. </p><p>But he doesn’t, and any anger he feels at his own incompetence falls flat. Piers’ eyes glaze over as he scrolls through the same jobs he’d been looking at less than a week ago. </p><p>“...bro?” Marnie nudges his foot under the table with her own, and Piers blinks down at her. </p><p>“Uh. Yeah.” <em>Real eloquent. Good influence.</em> “’M always kinda tired though.” </p><p>Marnie rolls her eyes so far back in her head that it must hurt. Still a teenager. “Yes, that’s not the point. You know that.” she chides, and Piers can’t help but think about how funny it is that he’s the one being lectured by his baby sister. Marnie’s expression softens as she meets her older brother’s tired eyes. “I don’t wanna yell or anythin’. I think you deserve to be doing something that makes you happy, bro.” </p><p>Marnie gnaws at her bottom lip, dark makeup smearing her front teeth. Anxious tell. Piers doesn’t call her out on it. </p><p>“I know you’ve...you’ve given up on music and all that. Which is fine. You’re your own person. But,” her tone gets defensive, and Piers bites back a sardonic snicker. He could teach her to put up walls all he wanted, but he’d never been good with teaching her about healthy emotions. “I think you could really do somethin’ good if you tried. Look for a job with connections, or something. Keep putting songs out there.” </p><p><em> Oh, Marns. If only you knew how difficult it is</em>. </p><p>Piers watches Marnie scrape a spoon against the bottom of the plastic Tupperware she’s eating out of. Thin lines of curry streak the bottom, and she pushes them around. Kicks her feet. <em> Still a kid </em>. Piers’ mouth feels dry, words thick and sticky in his throat, but he’s nothing if not pliable beneath the expectations of others, as much of a social reject as he is. </p><p>“Okay,” he says. The hand wrapped around his heart squeezes for a long pause and doesn’t let go. “Yeah. I’ll consider it.” </p><p>The practiced indifference on Marnie’s face lifts a bit; corners of her mouth curl up ever so slightly. She doesn’t thank him. There’s nothing to thank him for. </p>
<hr/><p><em> Paid Radio Intern. </em> Piers almost didn’t apply. </p><p>It felt beneath him. It felt like something too juvenile for someone his age. Working at a radio station for minimum wage just to learn the ropes in a position probably meant for college students. But Piers said he would, and radio is music in this case, so...somewhere to start, he supposed. Not quite laying his artistic soul bare for the entire world to see, but close enough for now. </p><p>Plus, he knows the program. It’s still a night shift, but it’s with Kibana, and whatever shit the DJ put on that playlist of his could use a few suggestions. He listens to that shitty station every night. They're basically best friends already, right? </p><p>Chipped, bitten-at nails clack away against the worn keyboard as Piers tries to describe his profound and long-developing passion for suburban college radio stations, and how attractive the radio scene is to any reasonable music enthusiast. He types in short, blunt sentences, tone acceptably clipped for the level of irritability Piers feels writing them. </p><p>Music enthusiast. Piers rolls the term around on his tongue before swallowing like it’s a fine wine. It’s not. It tastes rancid, but he wants to be polite. Piers swallows and hits enter and feels his pride start to sink downward with it like a knot in his throat. The grip on his heart gets just a little bit tighter. </p><p>Jealousy, maybe, but Piers can’t handle thinking about that possibility for more than a few seconds before he starts to feel embarrassed with himself. <em> Sorry </em>, he apologizes in his head to whoever was hurt about it. </p>
<hr/><p>When Piers gets a text from Kibana asking him when he wants to start, Piers lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding for the last week. </p><p><b>Unknown Number:</b> hey is this piers </p><p><b>Unknown Number:</b> its kibana ur boss </p><p><b>Unknown Number:</b> when do u wanna start</p><p><b>Piers:</b> how about next week friday </p><p><b>Piers:</b> gotta give my job rn notice </p><p><b>Unknown Number:</b> k</p><p><b>Kibana:</b> come at like 7 so we can do ur paperwork </p><p><b>Kibana:</b> shift starts at 8 ends at 4 n w/e if u need anything else jus text lmao</p><p>Piers looks up from his phone and into the vanity mirror across the room. He holds his own resting glare for a moment and only looks away when all he’s seeing are the lines carved into his face by time. He looks much more human than he’d like to. Much more human than 18-year-old Piers would forgive him for. But he’s not 18 anymore, and someone’s drawn dark lines on him like a doll, giving him bags and wrinkles and bones jutting out that most people don’t see until they’re much older or looking into Botox. </p><p>Gathering his hair into a lazy ponytail, Piers walks over to the far corner of the room where an electric bass collects dust. He takes it out every so often. Just to hold, play a few scales. Once a week in the good months. Piers has a guitar, too, but Marnie borrowed it a while back and he’s never asked her to return it. He can hear her pluck a melody through the walls, occasionally. She’s good at keeping time. </p><p>Piers’ fingers slot into place against the strings. He tunes the bass by ear. </p>
<hr/><p>The building is a small and grimy two-story, ivy chewing away at the brick. There are no windows in the back, and it lets out into a small dirt lot that’s covered in tall weeds, where two (well, three, counting Piers’) cars are parked haphazardly in the grass. He was instructed to enter through the back, and the only door that Piers can see is a solid sheet of dark brown metal with two uneven concrete steps leading up to it. </p><p>He tries the door handle. It’s locked tightly and doesn’t budge an inch. </p><p>Piers is already late, it’s 7:15, and this place is tucked back on some winding street in a neighborhood Piers would swear on his mother’s grave that he’d never seen in his life. The commute was shit. He still doesn’t entirely know how he made it here. Piers panics for a moment, tries the handle one more time, and then screws his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. </p><p>
  <em> In through the nose, out through the mouth.  </em>
</p><p>When he opens his eyes again, Piers takes out his phone from his jacket pocket. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in his phone and the corner of his mouth tugs up in a smirk. </p><p>He looks good. This is the first time in a while he’s left the house for anything other than groceries. The first time <em>period </em>that he’s been told by an employer to “ <em> wear whatever makes u feel sick </em>”. </p><p>Leather and spikes and dark makeup smeared over his eyes in his own interpretation of the warpaint he’d taught Marnie to wear every day, back when Piers was going to be a rockstar and his little sister was his biggest fan. </p><p>His reflection sneers back at him and swallows every <em> I fucked up </em>and <em> I don’t know </em>and <em> I’m sorry </em>that threatens to snap at his fragile psyche whole. </p><p><b>Piers:</b> hey im here </p><p>Kibana is not what Piers was expecting. </p><p>He didn’t think he had a set expectation to begin with, but whatever it was, he didn’t expect the man wearing slides with socks and nike athleisure in clashing neon colors who throws open the door. Piers steps back on instinct. He doesn’t feel small very often; he’s 6’2” in his platforms and spiked all over. Kibana, however, dwarfs him completely. This is obvious from the moment the taller man in front of him ducks his head through the doorframe. It’s emasculating in a way that Piers isn’t used to and doesn’t feel prepared for. </p><p>Insecurity tugs at Piers’ pleather pant leg like a belligerent little dog. This guy looks...younger than him. </p><p>“Yo,” Kibana says, and the garish nightmare dressed like a middle school athlete appraises him with an unreadable expression. “Piers?” </p><p>“Who else?” Piers bites back impulsively and then immediately regrets it. </p><p>Kibana doesn’t seem to care, though, and cracks the biggest and whitest smile Piers has ever seen in his life. “Hey! Was starting to wonder if you were gonna show.” He extends a hand. </p><p>He sounds…genuinely excited. Kibana’s voice is higher than Piers was expecting, all tenor and fast-paced in a way that he isn’t on the radio. The Kibana that Piers knows from nights at the Kiwkmart has a darker, sultry inflection and hangs on every word like it’s his last. He hadn’t stopped to think about what Kibana would actually be like in person. It makes sense that it’s a persona. Piers has his own masks, his own persona that filters his inner narrative into blunt words and dull tones. He wonders if this smiley behemoth in front of him is just another mask. </p><p>Piers ignores the hand offered to him. “Hey. Sorry I’m late. Got lost.” He says gruffly.</p><p>“Don’t sweat it. You look sick as hell!” </p><p>Piers cracked a smile. Just barely. “Thanks.”</p><p>“I’m Raihan, by the way,” he says and keeps his hand extended like he expects Piers to take it this time. “Kibana’s just my DJ name. But my real name is Raihan. You can call me that.” Turns the hand so his palm is open. He’s not going to let Piers get away with not taking it without coming off as exceptionally rude. “Or Rai, or Han, or whatever feels comfortable…” </p><p>He continues to chat away, and Piers stiffens. It’s been a long time since he’s touched anyone but Marnie. He doesn’t like touching people. It feels like a familiarity that Piers doesn’t want, like signing an emotional contract without knowing the terms. But Kibana -- <em> Raihan </em>-- is standing in front of him, still smiling so hard Piers can’t help but think about how his face must ache, and with an enthusiasm so real it files spikes down to something harmless. He comes off as a big puppy. Makes the mace of Piers’ persona into little more than a chew toy. </p><p>Piers’ ears burn as he takes Raihan’s hand and gives it one firm shake. </p><p>“Does your face hurt?” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>Piers scowls. “Does your face hurt. From smiling that big, I mean.” </p><p>Raihan snickers. “What, got a problem with it? You could stand to smile a little yourself, man. Where's your first-day-at-my-job charisma? Good first impressions?” He talks fast. And a lot. “Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with you. I like the fit, it's got flavor. You seem cool.” </p><p>Piers bites back an embarrassed smile. Embarrassed for Raihan, who talks too much. Embarrassed for himself, who's being stupid. He should be grateful to be here. </p><p>But Raihan is still grinning at him like he’d made his week, <em>finally</em> dropping the handshake and motioning for Piers to come inside. It looks cozy in there, in a messy way. Galaxy arcade carpets, walls covered in music memorabilia, warm yellow lighting. </p><p>“C’mon, I don’t bite,” Raihan laughs. It seems like he’s always laughing, like a smile and scrunched up eyes are the most natural thing on his face in the world. Piers doesn't mind it. “Lemme get you set up. I'll show you the ropes.”</p>
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